Monday, August 27, 2007

Super-busy Magic Kittens

Sometimes, I really wish I knew what is going on around here. At other times I can just keep myself engaged in pretty much everything that I can get my hands on. So you know I am a busy man. Oh it's so cool to not always have time for anything. You feel kinda important.

-Oye, will you be there at my birthday?
-Oops. I've got some work. But let me see if I can squeeze things in a bit so that I must just be able to poke my nose in once during the party. Can't promise though. You know these projec%$#@...bla bla bla.

After all the running around you still have to come home to yourself. You still have to go back to your room and switch off the lights. And you still have to lay sleepless on your bed staring right there in the darkness. Wishing this babel of thoughts would just go away. Like dark magic. Disappear. Into thick air. Yes. The air is thick and syrupy-dark. And sometimes you will think its hard to breath. There must be some law in fluid mechanics that says thick syrupy darkness is harder to inhale. I really wouldn't know.

"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began in a great hurry," and their names were Elsie, Lacie and Tillie, and they lived at the bottom of a well-"

"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.

"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

"They couldn't have done that you know," Alice gently remarked. " They'd have been ill."

"So they were," said the Dormouse, "very ill."

Like I was saying. We need Black Magic. Or wait. Grey Magic is more like it. We all need a Dark Grey magic to get by. Please don't tell me there is no such thing as magic. Let me use my illusions to my end. Literally.

The worse part is, I have even lost my innocence. I know too much to believe that things are not in fact what they seem to be. Hope has lost its wings to fly beyond days or weeks. It flies around and comes back tired and aching. Panting for breath. Flying in a dark syrupy sky is hard, I tell you. It's sticky. It stinks. Like a cute little kitten. Dead and rotten and all. Whiskers in the wind. The pink flesh of the skull made invisible by flies sitting. And licking. I wonder if the kitten feels like waking up and scratching the place. Does it itch? Still? But not all dead kittens have the luxury to be able to scratch their pink, fly-infested, itching skulls.

But the fact remains, all kinds of kittens(dead), cute or otherwise, stink.

All this could boil down to a few simple words. Then again, simplicity is a luxury for me. I just wish I would not have to leave you.

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